


they shall be quiet when the day is done

by Canon_Is_Relative



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:30:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes back to 221B after the shooting in the black tramway to find that being kidnapped, tied up and shot at was not the end to the night's excitement.</p><p>  <i>John didn't move. Couldn't, really, gaping as he was between the detective inspector on the sofa and the consulting detective who took every opportunity to make his professional life hell and who was also, apparently, authorised to hold his daughter. Because there was no doubt that was what - who - she was. Even in profile, there was no mistaking her resemblance to the DI. That and her pale pink jumper was sewn with a miniature police badge.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	they shall be quiet when the day is done

 

_Don't worry. Next date won't be like this._

What a colossally stupid thing to say.

Coming back from getting Sarah settled in at her brother's across town - she hadn't wanted to be alone, and for a hopeful minute John had thought she'd want to be not-alone _with him_ \- John had plenty of time to berate himself for the terrible quip. While Sherlock had been all suave assurance, _It's all right, you're going to be all right_ and even, _It's over now,_ John had come up with nothing better than, _Next date won't be like this._

 _Damn right, Johnny boy, because there's not going to_ be _a next date. Christ._

Getting out of the cab in Baker Street, John frowned to see shadowy silhouettes pacing behind the curtains of their flat. Too much movement to be Sherlock alone. A chill shuddered down his spine as those windows with their angry yellow ciphers stared down on him. He was sprinting up the stairs before the cabbie handed him his change.

" - Dimmock may be a right bastard but he's not going to roll over for you!"

It was Lestrade's voice that met his ears as he yanked open the door to the flat, which was bizarre enough to give him pause. He stopped on the landing, heart pounding in his throat.

"What," Sherlock scoffed, "the way you do?"

"Sherlock!"

The DI's protest was coming from the vicinity of the kitchen, John realised, poking his head around the door, and at that moment Sherlock paced into view. Only, it wasn't Sherlock. Couldn't have been. It was someone who looked just like him, wearing his clothes and speaking in his voice and inexplicably carrying a small child on his bony hip.

"Where the _hell_ did she come from?" John burst out, too surprised to weigh his words or modulate his tone.

" _Language,_ John!" Sherlock snapped, glaring at him. The little girl - she couldn't have been much over two - didn't move. Face buried in Sherlock's neck, thumb in her mouth, she was fast asleep.

Lestrade snorted, returning from the kitchen with a beer in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. The mug he handed to Sherlock, the bottle he kept for himself. "She hears far worse at home, Sherlock, and you know it."

Lestrade dropped down on the sofa and stretched his legs out, sprawling and looking for all the world as though he owned the place. Which was really remarkable as it was the first time since the drugs bust that John had ever seen him there.

"Hm," Sherlock hummed, disapproving, taking a sip of tea without further comment. Which was the second remarkable thing in the space of two breaths - Sherlock never drank the tea John made him without at least a half-dozen scathing comments on how he could have done it better.

John didn't move. Couldn't, really, gaping as he was between the detective inspector on the sofa and the consulting detective who took every opportunity to make his professional life hell and who was also, apparently, authorised to hold his daughter. Because there was no doubt that was what - who - she was. Even in profile, there was no mistaking her resemblance to the DI. That and her pale pink jumper was sewn with a miniature police badge.

_Good lord._

"Anyway," Sherlock was saying as he continued to pace, "if you would just answer your phone when I call you -"

"And if you would _kindly_ remember that _I_ am not at _your_ beck and call -"

"Oh, right, I always forget that," Sherlock's voice was heavily sarcastic, of course, but somehow missing the edge it carried in public. Maybe it was the mussed curly head nestled against his throat that softened the words. "It's supposed to be the other way around, isn't it?"

" _Yes._ It is. _You_ go where _I_ point you. Have you forgotten how this all came about in the first place?"

"As though you'd ever let me forget." Sherlock sighed dramatically and lowered himself to the couch to sit beside Lestrade. He must have felt the girl begin to stir for a moment later she lifted her head, blinking around her, the wrinkles of Sherlock's dress shirt criss-crossing her cheek.

"Homesy?" Sherlock smoothed her hair back from her face and kissed her forehead absently. She grinned, delighted, and burrowed in against him, snug between him and Lestrade, chanting his name - her version of it - around her thumb, gazing up at him in adoration.

John slipped out of his jacket and went to sit out of the way at his desk in the corner, wondering if any of this was going to be explained to him.

"It's one thing," Lestrade said, cradling his daughter's bare feet in one hand, looking down at them as though he couldn't comprehend how anything could be so small, "for me to let you in on my cases. Let me _finish,_ Sherlock!"

Sherlock harrumphed and slumped down further on the couch, grinding his jaw.

" _Yes,_ I know this one started as a private case. But as soon as the Yard gets involved the rules change. Shall we count the civilian casualties of the night, Sherlock? One dead, two kidnapped and injured. And it's all off the books because of the way you chose to conduct yourself."

"I would have -"

"I know you would have. But I am simply not _available_ to you when Helen is with me. Do you understand."

The girl - his daughter - _Helen_ \- looked around at Lestrade, eyes wide. She had the same eyes as him. The very same. It was eerie.

"Hey, little one," Lestrade murmured, opening his arms to her. She crawled into his lap despite Sherlock's wordless protest at her abandonment. "Did you have a good sleep?"

She nodded.

"I dunno how you can sleep on Uncle Homesy when he's so sharp and bony." Lestrade elbowed Sherlock, grinning at him over the girl's head. "I should know."

And just like that their personas fell away - DI and consulting detective; rivals; antagonists - and it was simply Greg Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes, beaming at each other.

"You've never complained about my angles before," Sherlock murmured. Purred, almost, leaning closer to Lestrade.

Lestrade lifted his eyebrows, nearly closing the gap between them. "Was I complaining?"

"Mm, insufficient data." Sherlock attempted to shift closer, making an impatient sound in his throat as Lestrade remained out of reach, adding, by way of a hint, "But you know I can _taste_ when you're complaining."

Lestrade gave a low laugh and bent his head to brush his lips against Sherlock's and John felt his brain give up trying to make sense of what was going on as he saw Lestrade's tongue flick along his flatmate's bottom lip.

"And you taste like..." Lestrade pulled away and ran his tongue along his teeth, considering. "Bullshit."

Sherlock sat up, his nose wrinkling in distaste, glaring at Lestrade over Helen's head. "That was singularly unappetising, Lestrade."

Lestrade smirked. Helen yawned. Sherlock's face fell. Softly, watching Lestrade check the time, he asked, "Are you staying?"

Lestrade gave a sad smile. "Little one's wanting her bed."

"I have a bed," Sherlock pointed out.

Lestrade shook his head. "No, darlin'. We've got to go."

Lestrade passed Helen, who was nearly asleep again, back to Sherlock, and stood, stretching his back.

"Christ, I'm tired. You'll be the death of me yet, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't look up, occupied as he was with sorting out a tangle in Helen's mousy brown hair. When he'd finished, he lifted her up into her father's waiting arms, and stood. He wrapped one long arm around Lestrade's waist and looked solemnly into his eyes.

"Now that you've decided you don't care that my flatmate knows about us..." Sherlock trailed off on a wicked smirk as Lestrade gave a start and half turned to look around for the flatmate he'd forgotten about. John gave him a grin and a wave before Sherlock recalled his attention. "Now, perhaps, you'll stop being an idiot and come see me now and again."

Lestrade grumbled, the back of his neck flushing red, but pulled Sherlock in to kiss him soundly. John watched in something like fascination to see Sherlock begin to melt against the DI. The DI who, after a minute, had to push Sherlock away and hold him at arm's length, shaking his head and saying sternly, "No, _no,_ you are not winning that game tonight. We're leaving, Sherlock."

Sherlock's shoulders slumped, but he didn't protest further. He walked Lestrade to the door and held it for him, sneaking in one last kiss to his stubbled jaw and another to the top of Helen's head, his long fingers brushing along her cheek as Lestrade smiled at him and left.

Sherlock closed the door behind them, sighed, and turned to John with his hands in his pockets and a grin that somehow managed to straddle the border between smug and serene.

John snorted and shook his head, opening his laptop. "Nope. I'm not even going to give you the satisfaction. I don't want to know."

"Oh," Sherlock's disappointed whine was rivaled only by his disappointed pout as he collapsed grandly onto the sofa, "come on. I know you do."

"Nope." John shook his head, grinning, pecking away at the keyboard. "Really don't."

Sherlock sighed and burrowed deeper into the couch, enfolding himself in Lestrade's residual embrace, perhaps. "You'd only be jealous anyhow. He has _the_ most remarkable--"

"Sherlock! _I don't want to know!"_

Sherlock's laugh rumbled deep in his chest and he closed his eyes, folding his hands over his chest. "Jealous. I figured as much."

John threw a pen at him, missing entirely. Sherlock didn't even open his eyes so John settled for grumbling, "Go to sleep, you arrogant git."

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Sara Teasdale's poem, "Helen of Troy." Many thanks to ImpishTubist who reminded me that I'd written this and encouraged me to post it.


End file.
